


Makings of a Pack

by painteddragons



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Family Feels, Fluff, Gen, Gendry is a Baratheon, Getting to Know Each Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prince Gendry, Rewrite, Season/Series 01, War of the Five Kings, hes also a bastard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 07:30:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17341199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/painteddragons/pseuds/painteddragons
Summary: Ned tells Robert of Cersei's affairs, and forever changes the history of Westeros.With all of the Lannisters dead, bar Tyrion, Robert has no heirs to speak of. Until he legitimizes his eldest son, Gendry the Smith, and sets about recreating his past love, marrying him off to the Stark wolf, and surprisingly, they begin to fall for each other. Until one year later, the King dies at the hands of Tywin Lannister.





	1. Chapter 1

King’s Landing was the single most boring place Arya had ever stepped foot in. Every day was the same events, and every occasion demanded her to act like the lady she was born to be; no sparring in the yards or riding that wasn’t a side saddle traipse through the gardens. Yawn.

This day in particular followed that same routine, Arya had been awoken by her Septa and a Ladies’ Maid, who she had tried to fire 3 times in the last week to no avail, followed by breakfast with her family, then embroidery, singing, walking, or dance lessons with Sansa and the other twittering birds, all day.

Arya was an hour late to Princess Myrcella’s parlour for another dull tea with the ladies. She had been too preoccupied chasing cats to pursue court gossip. The only reason Arya was even attempting to show up in her silly blue dress was because Sansa had begged her to this morning, reminding her of who it was that helped her hide her sword from their Septa in their rooms. Turning a corner, her eyesight was blocked by a swarm of armed chests. There was crying coming from within the room. Myrcella and Tommen by the sounds of it.

As much as she didn’t care for court, Myrcella was a sweet girl, maybe a little too quiet and shy but not nearly as infuriating as everyone else in this Gods be damned castle. Arya wiggled her way forwards, pushing through the small gaps between the guards towards the open door. She had only just caught a glimpse of golden hair on the floor when she was caught and dragged away by her shoulders.

“Arya, this is not for your ears,” her father’s voice murmured into the shell of her ear.

“Get yourself to you room now, stay with Sansa and do not leave until I come for you. Jory, take her please.” Just as she tensed to make a run for it, another pair of rough hands pushed gently on her back, guiding her out of the gilded corridor, and out of the royal wing.

“C’mon m’lady, we better get ourselves gone before the lions start hissing,” her father’s bannerman muttered, snaking one last glance over his shoulder at the commotion.

“Jory where’s Sansa? She was the one that wanted me to meet her at this stupid tea anyway!”

Arya’s feet dragged as she attempted to twist away from her guard, but he was stronger, and more importantly, already familiar with her usual methods of escape, he had her caught by the collar of her dress like an insolent puppy by the scruff of their neck. Running away was obviously not an option, so finally stilled to hear his response.

“Your sister’s already in your father’s solar with your Septa and a few of the other Stark men. Luckily she wasn’t with that Joffrey boy when the news broke.”

“What news? What’s happen – “

“No more questions Little Lady, the walls here have ears and they aren’t as friendly as those back in Winterfell.”

Once back to the rooms set aside for the Hand of the King, only marginally less lavish than the royal wing itself, Arya’s second attempt for an interrogation was stopped by a mouthful of bright orange hair.

Sansa hugged her fiercely, which itself is rare, but even more so was the tremors that wracked her slender frame. Arya, being much shorter than her sister had her face firmly planted in Sansa’s long neck, her pulse beating a frantic rhythm into her cheek.

“Oh, thank the Seven you’re okay! When Father couldn’t find you, I had thought the Queen had tried for some retribution!”

That caught her attention, Sansa usually worshipped the ground that Cersei walked on. Arya pulled her arms away from her sister and stepped backwards, turning slightly to address the others in the room. She could see that it was not only Sansa who was shaken, but the Northmen’s lips had curled up in a sneer and she could imagine faint traces of steam escaping from their ears. Something had obviously happened while she was catching that tomcat.

“Wait, can someone please tell me what’s happened?! What d’you mean the Queen would hurt me for revenge? What for?”

Sansa’s face somehow fell further, shadows playing in the seemly hollows of her face, aging her past her years.

“Father told the King the truth. The three children are not his own, they are bastards. Of the Queen and the Kingslayer. They are all to be executed at first dawn tomorrow.”

Oh shit. Oh no.

Poor Myrcella.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The next morning arrived swiftly. Their father had not wanted them to witness the execution, but the King would not have it. He insisted upon every person able in King’s Landing to attend the death of the Lannisters.

Thankfully, the King had rescinded his previous ruling of also killing the children finally listening to her father’s advice. Tommen already sent north to take the black and Myrcella chose to become a devout follower of the Seven. Joffrey who was too proud to take the black, had chosen to die with his mother. In this way, this ensured they could not claim the throne or their line to continue to threaten Robert’s reign, with any false claims.

Out of the way, and no longer his responsibility.

Arya pitied them. The circumstances of their birth were not their fault and the two children were peaceful and kind, not a mad bone in their bodies. Joffrey on the other hand was an abomination and the fucker deserved to die; for Mycah, for Lady, for manipulating Sansa.

Poor Sansa was beside herself with the news that she had almost been wed to a child of incest. The pink lens with which she viewed the world was finally beginning to lift and she was starting to notice the poison that filled the court of her dreams.  

The crowd was full, hissing and shifting with whispers and theories and barely contained excitement. Arya rolled her eyes. And the thought that the North was barbaric. At least there, a death wasn’t a form of entertainment.  

There was a large wooden stage erected in a large square at the foot of the palace. At the sides were seats for the nobles and a wooden throne for the King. He sat alone and for once his face was not betraying any emotion. Behind him sat his brothers, Renly and Stannis, and behind them was her place with her father and his bannermen. Arya noted that this was the same setting they were used to for tourneys and theatre productions.

These deaths were going to be a spectacle for the whole country to witness.

It began with a few words from the King, and his herald, and then the prisoners were brought up on stage from behind a curtain.

Their hands were shackled together, in a line and their clothes were ripped and torn and filthy from the cells. Cersei’s hair had all been hacked off messily with clots of blood crowning her golden head, and the Kingslayer’s left sleeve was dangling uselessly from his wrist. There had obviously been a fight to take them down. Joffrey looked pristine, as he was too scared to fight probably, Arya huffed.

They weren’t permitted any last words, but from the looks of furious pride they would not have spoken anyway.  Ever the lions. They had no words to speak to the realm of Men any longer, both content to be with each other and to see their mother once again. Die with the power in your hands. Don’t let them take your pride, your dignity.

 

Perhaps wolves and lions were not too dissimilar. 

Anything to protect the pack, the pride. With their deaths, Myrcella and Tommen would at least not be considered a threat, would be given mercy and a measure of safety and consideration.

Til the chopping block met their manes and the crowd finally silenced, and not too soon after the false Prince’s head was to follow. The crowd laughed. Arya’s teeth ground together silently in her jaw.

With three blows of an axe, it was the end of a Great House of Westeros.

Not standing on ceremony, the King launched himself up and out of his grand front row seat, his red face full righteous anger. His dark eyebrows were set downwards, his cheeks puffed, his mouth forced into a scowl and his great heavy hands pulled tight into fists. Ours is the Fury.

“Now, that that cheating whore and her disgusting lover are dead, the truth is revealed. I have ruled for 18 years with no heir!”

They booed and jeered and cursed the Lannister name, but the King’s mighty voice drowned them all.

 “But do not fear, my people, your futures are certainly in the hands of the Baratheons. I introduce my eldest son, my eldest legitimized bastard. My hand, Lord Stark, had found him and brought him to me in confidence while he explained the lies of my ex-wife. Unlike those false children, my son is strong! He is brave and much like his old man if I do say so myself!” He waved his portly paw towards the silken curtain.

“Prince Gendry, heir to the Iron Throne.”

 

 

The boy – no, man who walked upon the stage before the king was every inch a Baratheon; from the dark hair to the strong build to the firm clench of his jaw. He was angry. Do these stags feel anything else? Arya wondered to herself. He was a giant, through her young eyes, though not nearly as revolting as the rumours of giants she’s heard. Her head would barely meet his chest.

His eyes were Baratheon blue and clear like the summer’s sky.

He was handsome, she supposed. Very strong. Arya could practically hear Sansa’s intake of breath beside her and grimaced. Great, another prince for Sansa to never shut up about.  

He was dressed in finery: a dark tunic emblazoned with gold, and a small circlet of golden horns rested on his raven hair. He was clearly uncomfortable with the praise from the crowd, as his feet shifted in position, with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. The people seemed not to care that he was a bastard, it was not a secret that the King was hardly faithful to his wife. 

However, the same could not be said for the lords as Arya snuck glances at the people seated nearest to her. Lots of faces were pinched, as though they were trying to hide their pain, their outrage at having a lowborn prince. Many women looked disappointed, many men contemplative. Was it worth marrying their daughters to a bastard if she eventually become Queen?

Arya was disgusted. They were all thinking of him like some kind of badly bred dog, who happened to know some interesting tricks. A spectacle. Her brother Jon may have been a bastard, but he was the best man that she would ever know. This people knew nothing.

“Now go! Make merry! We are having a feast tonight and all of King’s Landing, all of Westeros should be too! In honour of your new prince!”

One final cheer arose from the crowd, beginning to disperse, and Arya’s eyes stayed locked upon this newcomer to the game. He remained silent and his jaw locked tight, but he softened slightly, bowed to his father and stormed off the way which he came.

The bodies were then cleared, and the nobility rose to be led back to the Red Keep to get ready for the Grand Feast in the afternoon.

A few moments later, the King appeared in front of the three wolves, who each bowed in turn.

“Enough, enough of that please Ned. Thank you, my friend for being here.” At this, he clasped her father on the shoulder, with Eddard Stark returning the embrace with a fond look in his eye. Though he did not respond, the King nodded his head, in tune with his friend’s ways and dropped his arm.

“Always us Starks and Baratheons, huh?” he mused.

King Robert, first of his name, focused his attentions onto herself and her sister, with a far-off look in his eye.

“Now my nothern ladies, what did you think of my boy?”

Oh shit.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

When Lord Stark requested a favour from him, Gendry knew he couldn’t exactly refuse. He also knew that though Lord Stark is particularly honourable, he will not be able to call upon such a favour. The nobles don’t work that way.

It was a regular working day like any other that changed the poor kid’s life forever, full of sweat and aching muscles. Gendry was hammering out a sword commissioned by some poncy lord that costs twice as much as Gendry’d earn in a year. Blacksmithing was a thankless apprenticeship as he never is able to claim the praises for his own work, no matter how skilled he was.

Not that Mott was a bad master, but he was tight on his finances. He had to be to keep the smithy running, and keeping Gendry fed and housed. The boy knew, at least, that he was one of the luckiest orphans in all of Fleabottom. Mott took him in miraculously. He had turned up at the orphanage one day, overflowing with snot nosed brats chasing each other through the filthy streets, and he had taken Gendry based on his sheer size. _A beast of a boy_ , he would say. For 10 years now, he’s been smithing, he would never complain about food nor weather but sometimes he still did dream of a life, above the smog and shit of his station. Having his own name, one that he could pass onto his children.

 A smile crossed his face unbidden and a firm hand swatted him around the head for it.

“Boy get your unreasonably tall head out of those clouds you’ve found yourself in before you get burnt,” Tobho said, not unkindly.

 _He’s right_ , Gendry thought as he hefted the hammer that he hadn’t notice had stilled. _I’d never want to be one of those stuffy lords anyways; they don’t give two shits about people like me._

Now look what he’s gotten himself into.

The door to the smithy opened, but Gendry didn’t bother to look up. Master Mott always handled the actual costumer interaction, saying something about how Gendry’s lack of manners or patience always lost them business. Whatever.

“Oi lad!”

That actually caught his attention. Dropping his tools, giving his face a wipe with a damp cloth and threw on whatever dirty shirt he had been wearing previously, he walked out into the front of the shop.

Tobho Mott was not small by anyone’s standards, but even he seemed to shrink stood next to this man. He was tall, but not overly. He was not grotesquely strong but carried an air of strength to him, in the straightness of his spine and the set of his jaw. Long dark hair pulled pack in a knot, a long face inspected him with dark grey eyes. The man didn’t shift or fidget, but planted himself squarely, with his arms held behind his back, and did not back down with eye contact. A northman.

“Can I help you, m’lord?” he spoke, at the prodding of his master.

“We’ll soon find out but aye, I hope so, boy.” He leant down and picked up a bull-shaped helm from a display close by, cradling it in his large hands.

“Was this of your making?”

Gendry squared his shoulders, glad he was almost of a height himself to match the man in front of him.

“It’s not for sale,” he said curtly.

“Now, kid, think about thi – “

“No. I made this for meself. I won’t give it away to no one,” he interrupted his master, crossing his impressive arms, puffing out his chest.

Strangely, instead of looking insulted, the lord began to smile at Gendry’s stubbornness. He shook his head and placed the helm back down onto the table.

“Shame that. That’s masterful craftsmanship you’ve got there…?”

“Gendry, m’lord.”

“No last name?”

“No m’lord. My father didn’t think it was that important, passing on his name when he knocked up a barmaid.”

The lord huffed out a chuckle from deep inside of his chest.

“Well Gendry, seems you’re free right now isn’t that right Master Mott?” At this his master nodded his head so quickly that Gendry feared it would fall right off.

“Lovely. Let’s have a chat.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The second time Lord Stark visited the smithy, he brought someone with him.

Well, not just anyone.

Lord Stark arrived accompanied by 6 of his own men, and King Robert Baratheon.

Once the king had potted into the workshop, he began to laugh hysterically upon seeing Gendry, not even allowing him the time to attempt a bow. This was Gendry’s first time ever meeting a royal and Mott had hardly given him any warning to try and get himself presentable. You never knew what could offend this lot, gods forbid they see soot on a blacksmith.

“Dear Gods, man! How did that bitch ever convince me those pale bastards were mine!” At this, the king grabbed the side of Gendry’s face, his large hand almost taking up his entire side. Gendry was not as tall as the King, being still a teen, and so looked steadily into his beard, not daring to make eye contact.

The king was tall, and broad, not unlike himself, though the years of whoring and drinking and feasting had obviously taken its toll. And although he was dressed in finery, the hand pressed into his skin was covered in callouses, suggesting that at one point this noble had seen actual physical labour. His breath stank of wine, but his blue eyes were clear and steady.

“Look at this boy! It’s like looking in a mirror Ned!”

At Lord Stark’s expression, the King laughed once again and removed his hand to jokingly grab at his protruding belly. “Well, twenty years ago at least. Look at me in my prime.”

This no one could deny; the resemblance was uncanny.

“Did you know, smith?” the King asked.

“I suspected, your grace. It was your previous hand, Lord Arryn that had me make him my apprentice after his mother had died.”

Okay, this was too much. Now Gendry could not hold back any words behind a screen of politeness. Apparently, everyone was attuned to some frequency that he didn’t have access to, because he had no fucking clue what was happening.

“What in the seven hells is going on?!” He may or may not have yelled, stepping away from the King. Then his brain caught up with his mouth.

“I mean – your grace – “

The king looked stunned at his red face and burst out into a grin, looking every inch like the cat that caught the canary.

“Well, there’s no doubt he’s a stag for sure. You’re not just any bastard of Fleabottom, Gendry, you’re my son. And soon you’re going to be my heir.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

For the next three days while they planned the capture of the Lannisters, Gendry lived in the Red Keep. He was bathed and perfumed and given more clothes than he had any right to own, and he found he didn’t enjoy it one bit. Out of one of his windows, he could track the movements of the people milling about the streets of the city, and for the first time understood why the nobility referred to them as the “smallfolk.” From up here, nothing they could do seemed all that important, carrying bread, yelling in the streets. It was all below him, _literally_. And he hated it.

He especially hated it when he thought he could catch a glimpse of Hot Pie outside a far-off bakery, or Lommy with his dumb cloak, but they were too small, too insignificant to distinguish.

Only, they were not insignificant at all, they were his only friends. He was trapped now, in a fancy golden cage, and he found out first hand why all the bloody lords were so miserable even though they had so much.

There were so many rules to follow. Almost everything he knew was discarded as inappropriate and unbecoming behaviour and so he had to train himself to perform, like a bloody pony. He was no pony, he was a bull.

Although, now that wasn’t even true. He was soon to be a stag. A Baratheon. A prince.

He hadn’t seen more of his apparent father since that day in the smithy. So much for finally having a family, he shrugged. It was fine, though. He was used to not having one anyways.

Lord Stark, however, appeared at his chamber door every day, to check up on him amongst the throngs of tutors and maesters and maids.

One day, Gendry was summoned to the King’s chambers for the first time. The servants bathed him and dressed him until he resembled everything he used to hate and sent him on his way.

Striding briskly through the many halls, he arrived at his father’s room, the doors opened by the gold-cloaked guards.

The room itself was as large as 6 homes on the Street of Steel. Balconies lead out to views of gardens and the sea beyond, and a large bed took up almost a quarter of the room. Gendry instead was led to a huge table, laden with fruits and bread and seated in front of the King.

The guards left, and yet he had not touched his food. In all honesty, he didn’t know what it was. Yes, his meals so far in the palace had been amazing, but they had all been at least slightly familiar, or explained to him by a nearby servant. It’s not like he was used to foods such as fresh fruit in the capital.

“Eat, boy,” spoke the King, with a rough gesture to the plates in front of them.

Gendry was so uncomfortable, he felt as though he was about to explode. He did not belong here. Was he meant to be formal? Did he use the cutlery? What was that bright yellow thing off to the side? What should he say?

“Yes, your grace,” He settled on, grabbing a slice of white bread lathered in reddish fruits.

“None of that please. I’m your father before I’m your king.”

Gendry had to refrain from pulling a face at the man.

“Yes, father.”

  The fruits were almost too sweet, but filled his mouth, excusing him from making any more conversation, so he to him they were perfect.

“This afternoon I’m going to announce you,” the King said in between mouthfuls of his own meal.

“It will be in front of the whole city, so prepare yourself. And tonight, there’ll be a feast, so have someone tell you what’s expected of you.”

Gendry nodded, not trusting his mouth not to curse at this situation that was now completely out of his control.

The silence stretched out.

“You know, lad, I remember your mother.” Gendry’s head shot up off of his plate and he locked eyes with the King, urging him to continue, now cursing his full mouth. Not talking with his mouth full was something his servant, Gwilym had lectured him on during his first meal in the castle.

“She was beautiful, and generous and I had been mourning the loss of my dear Lyanna, the loss of my happiness. She comforted me, told me to get over myself. Told me I’d never be able to rule with my head between my legs. I’d never heard any one of the Smallfolk speak so brazenly to me as their new king.”

There was a sparkle in his eye, as he continued, the food momentarily forgotten.

“I’m warning you Gendry, us Baratheon’s are suckers for attitude. It’s why your Uncle Stannis is damn near comatose after all his years with that Florent bitch,” he japed, before his smile fell again.

The conversation drifted into menial pleasantries, asking about Gendry’s past, and if he had ever been with a woman before, which made Gendry choke on his wine, he blushed so hard. Before long, the King was required to attend some meeting or another with a house he’d never heard off and Gendry was herded back to the relative peace of his chambers to reflect.

And of course, to get ready for this stupid presentation thing later. At least he wasn’t required to speak.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

The “Presentation” went exactly as well as Gendry had predicted. Yes, maybe on the surface, everything went perfectly but he was aware of the looks of disgust emanating from the entire court. A bunch of stuck up pricks.

What was more, was that the King had announced him at the execution, not even waiting til the bodies went cold. It made him feel even more like a replacement, like a child that they had shoved into the place of a prince to fill the gaps.

The feast afterwards was slightly less intimidating than facing the entirety of King’s Landing in a fucking tiara, but Gendry still wasn’t feeling up to it. It involved socializing.

What he wouldn’t forgive for a stressbusting trip to the forge.

He was to enter unaccompanied and then to walk through the grand hall by himself filled with people who would love to see him returned to the filth, to sit himself down at the right hand of his father. Fun.

The doors opened, and he trudged out, trying his hardest not to let his feet drag.

The food was the best he had ever tasted, the music a huge improvement over the drunkard’s bawling he was used to. His father made small talk with him, said that he was going to be a good addition to this house. On his other side was Lord Renly, who had insisted upon being called Uncle, despite him only being 8 years his senior.  Every time Renly referred to him as nephew, when his father called him son a small piece inside of his soul could cry in happiness. He didn’t care about the crown or the money, he had the beginnings of a family now. And Stannis, though he was not as warm to Gendry as his brothers, told him he had a cousin who wanted to meet him in Dragonstone. They might not have the Tully words, but family was important to the Baratheons too.

All in all, it was not as bad as he predicted, although Gendry could feel the crawling of stranger’s eyes patrolling his every move.

That all came to a quick and fiery death once the eating portion of the feast had ended. The celebratory half was much more involved.

For the next three hours minimum, Gendry had to introduce himself to everyone in this stupid hall, and dance with almost half.

He was spun around the hall like a puppet, spitting out rehearsed pleasantries to all of the people that would ignore him he they had met a month ago. Hell, they’d more than just ignore him, and now they’re bending over backwards for his approval.

Is every godsdamned girl in this Kingdom single, and being thrown at him? And could they please stop? Gendry really did not care about how accomplished Lady Blah’s sewing skills were, while they made backhanded comments about his own upbringing.

“Oh really, my Lady? That is quite impressive,” he murmured half-heartedly, wishing the conversation to end.

“Excuse me, my lords, my ladies,” interrupted a warm voice, with a very particular accent. “If I could just steal our prince here for a moment.” Gendry had never felt more relieved to see anyone elbowing their way towards him.

“Lord Stark! No, no, of course not. Sorry ser,” shuffled off the family, bested by hierarchy. Their faces told everyone that they very much minded but would not say as much to the head of a great house.

“Your grace, please meet my daughters; my eldest, Sansa, and my youngest, Arya.”

He groaned internally at the look of interest in the redhead’s eyes. She was certainly very beautiful, and ladylike just like every other girl he’d met tonight. Some of the men too, for that matter.

She dropped in to a curtsy, her neck bent to show off some ridiculous plait.

“Your grace, I’m so pleased to have met you. You look very regal this evening”

He kissed her knuckles, responding in the same kind of manner. He wasn’t paying attention to his words, when some other words that were much more interesting broke through the haze of alcohol and nerves and boredom.

“Don’t worry about being a bastard, your grace. It just means you know more about this realm than any of these stupid rich people combined,” the younger daughter thrust her hand forwards, tilted obviously meant for a hand shake. She was so short that he could not even see her in his eyeline with a straight gaze, but she was nonetheless intimidating, striking.

Gendry grinned and propriety be damned, took the offered shake while her sister near screamed in disapproval. Even kindly Lord Stark had a frown etched onto his face. This girl was not the regular lady, it seems. She was not a peasant, that was clear, but she didn’t carry the air of smugness that most others did. Her face was clean, both from dirt and from makeup, and her dress was simple but of an astounding quality as the deep blue was not an easy dye to obtain. She was of the north, and she looked just like her father. Even her straightforwardness was an obviously hereditary trait.

“Thank you m’lady. It seems like you’re the only person in this city not dancing around the subject.”

Her eyes glinted like freshly polished steel but had the warmth of a thousand embers.

“Well, yes. If anyone is in need of blunt honesty, Arya always has it in spades,” Lord Stark spoke, gently pulling his daughter back towards him. “Sometimes even when it is not required of her.”

Arya rolled her eyes but managed not to say anything else. 

“I’m glad for it in any case. I’m already sick of half truths and I’ve been here less than a week,” to which Arya snorted in agreement, even Sansa seeming to nod politely.

“Now, if you’d excuse me m’ladies – my ladies,” he corrected upon Lord Stark’s subtle cough, “I must continue meeting everyone in the kingdom.”

Just as he began to walk off, a small hand pulled him back by the arm, pulling him further to floor.

“Walk with your back straight,” not-quite-whispers tickled the skin of his neck. The little Lady, Arya.  “Chin up. If you act like you belong here, they won’t question you.”

Gendry whispered his thanks, squeezing the offending hand, and took the advice in his stride.

He could only just make out the lecture that Arya was receiving on his behalf, but he was honest when he said he was glad for her outspoken tongue. It seemed she was sympathetic but not pitying which is exactly what he needed to make it through this alive. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

“Arya, you must be more careful with how you act here. This is not Winterfell,” her father warned for about the millionth time this week.

“Yes, I know Father. But the vipers will swallow him whole in this stupid stinking castle. Just because he’s a bastard doesn’t mean he is any lesser.”

“But he is not Jon. You can’t act familiar with him, lest you want the whole court to speculate about a betrothal,” reasoned Sansa.

Reflexively, her nose scrunched up, and her tongue stuck out, a bad taste in her mouth.

Stupid Gendry. He’s not Jon, so why does she care so much what happens to him? Arya knows the answer; she has been on the receiving end of malicious nobles and their whispers. The wildling girl, who’s hardly a girl at all. They barely believe her to be human and would all see her sold off to any man stupid enough to wed her. They want her broken in like a wilful horse.

Even Sansa sometimes, although their relationship has grown much fiercer in the court of the King. The three Starks were the only wolves and they must present a united front lest the snakes take advantage of any chinks in their armour. Sibling rivalries were for summer children, and winter was coming. There wasn’t the time to disagree over unchangeable things.

One thing, however, that is still a point of contention is Sansa’s relentless interfering in Arya’s lacking love life. Sansa, perfect Sansa has nearly as many suitors as she does dresses and someday soon the most appropriate man for her standing will be chosen, and she’ll be married. Where Sansa sees her dream, a castle to command, a husband, children to raise, security and honour; Arya only sees a trap, a pair of shackles masquerading as a person.

She shall never marry.

The feast went on, song after song after song. How did those minstrels not pass out from exhaustion? She wondered.

The night was drawing to a close when she managed to escape out into the gardens. At this time, they were absolutely breath taking, strewn with candles that flickered gently and more varieties of flowers glowing in the moonlight than she had ever seen in the north.

Even the moon seemed to be larger tonight, she was gleaming and playing on the reflections on the waves so far below. One downside of the gardens was that nothing was allowed to be wild. The flowers all laid in neat stonewalled beds, the paths clear and the hedges were immaculate. Arya felt compelled to send a prayer to her wild Gods, but there was no Godswood worthy to mention in this idiotic region, where nature where so controlled.

She continued on her journey along the paths, when she noticed a glint of iron behind one of the meticulously trimmed hedges. Finally, something unexpected. A secret garden.

Discreetly checking over her shoulder to make sure that there was no one milling about that could watch her, Arya climbed the wall and disappeared over the other side.


	3. Chapter 3

This garden was not as orderly as the sprawling lawns surrounding the rest of the castle, but it was not a joy filled wonder either. A stretch of willow trees leant their weeping faces down towards a small pond with a gravel path leading to the largest of the trees. This particular willow was drawn close to the ground, the branches causing ripples in the water even in the unnatural absence of the wind, this close to the sea.

The atmosphere was forlorn. The earth here was grieving.

Trampling over long grasses, passing a patch of wild blue roses, Arya drew back the curtain of leaves and stepped into the embrace of this great tree. Under the canopy, in the pitch of night the leaves falling around her spread out like the night sky up above and concealed almost all of the light burning in far off torches. Even the sound was subdued here, as she had finally lost track of the songs echoing out of the great hall.

Even in this still darkness, Arya could make out the face carved into the bark of the ancient willow. It was an imitation of a Weirwood Tree, of the Heart tree. Her palms felt achingly smooth against the rough bark as her fingers traced the featured that were painstakingly engraved, but she could feel the energy simmering beneath the surface, could now hear the whispers of the gods in the rustle of the leaves and the giggle of the water.

Arya was so spellbound by the feeling of homesickness that overcame her in this foreign land, that she did not notice the dark figure part the curtain to the side of her, the same way she had come in.

“This is amazing.” The prince looked just as mystified as herself, gazing up into the branches that lead to the inky blueness of the sky. As gently as he spoke, for such a huge man, Arya still felt herself jump a foot into the air.

“You! You stupid -!” she wheezed, her lungs working overtime for all the air she let out in a small undignified scream.

It’s not as though the prince was listening to her mangled words anyways, he was too busy trying to regain his own breath, doubled over in laughter. 

Arya’s fire returned to her. “You! Scared! The! Living! Hell! Out of me!”

Each word was punctuated with a swat to the stupid boy’s wide shoulders, not even causing him to wince, which only made her even more angry.

“I’m sorry my lady,” he said as he wiped the mirth from his eyes. “You jumped so high I thought you were going to smack me in the chin!”

“Oh, shut up! Just because you’re unreasonably tall doesn’t give you cause to mock me,” her nose stuck up at her wounded pride and she tried to straighten her spine further to give her a half inch more height. It didn’t make much of a difference.

The prince sobered immediately. His face scrunched up as if he had just been scolded. “Yes, I’m sorry. That was inappropriate, my lady.”

“Don’t call me my lady.”

“My lady, I know I’m new to all this, but I’m pretty sure that’s even more inappropriate.”

Arya had no response to this, so she just huffed and leant back against the body of the tree. Once again, her eyes were drawn upwards and through the blanket of leaves, she could just make out the stars. At least those were the same as back home. A rustle on the grass and a softened thump suggested that the prince had near thrown himself onto the ground beside her.

“What are you doing here anyways?” she finally broke the silence.

“I saw you disappear, and it seemed interesting whatever was on the other side of that wall. I’d gotten bored,” he looked up at her for a second before continuing. “Why can’t I? It’s my own castle anyways, my lady.”

“Arya.”

“Okay, fine. Call me Gendry then.” Arya nodded, and he began to pick at the grass, ripping sections from the roots and watching it fall back to the ground. It was odd, his silence. He was contemplative. Finally, he settled on: “It’s my castle, Arya. Why are you here?”

“I’ve lived here longer than you have, Gendry.” She sank to the ground, careful to maintain distance between their shoulders. He was not Jon. He was not Jon.

“And plus, if I ran into one more lord who wanted to ask about my sister, I was going to skewer them with whatever was closest.”

And of course, Gendry then asked about Sansa, and received a punch in the arm in return.

“I’m joking,” he laughed at her attempt to hurt him, stupid boy. “I’m sure she’s lovely she’s just not for me.”

This was a first, someone who was not interested in her perfect lady sister. Arya had the feeling that this was the beginning of a strong friendship.

“Who is for you then?”

Maybe she had been mistaken with her ideas of friendship when the idiot asked: “Why, my lady? Are you interested?” He was not laughing at the following punches and curses that came with her vehement denial.

“As if! Flatter yourself why don’t you! Besides I’m not interested in marriage at all. I’m going to be a knight not some stupid lady.”

His eyes widened in surprise at her proclamation. Gendry could imagine it though, as small as she was. In his mind he saw Arya clothed in armour, challenging any man that looked her way, competing in tourneys. Would she even find armour small enough to fit her properly? Gendry thought that maybe, if she couldn’t, he could make some for her. At the weird warmth in his chest at the thought of Lady Stark using armour he forged, he blushed. Abandon that thought please, he begged his mind. He meant to ask her if she was going to try and compete in the tourney that was being organized next fortnight for his first name day as crown prince, but she hadn’t abandoned her previous train of thought.

“I only asked because you’re marrying age, and the crown prince. The King must be pushing for a wedding soon.”

“Then no, milady. There’s no girls for me though every goddamn wench at this feast did try and throw herself at me.” At her raised eyebrows he amended his statement. “Every wench but you, don’t worry. And thankfully, the king hasn’t brought it up yet.”

“I wish you luck then, your grace. At finding someone who can put up with your stupidity.”

“You’ve not even known me for a day!”

“And yet you’ve made it extremely obvious.”

A rough shove from Gendry toppled her balance and she found herself curled up in the leaves. He was laughing at her put out expression and laughed even harder when she tried to retaliate only to not manage to budge him at all.

“Oh, shut up you stupid bull!”

Somehow, this only encouraged his laughter, and soon he fell over anyway, clutching his stomach. With his red face and wheezing breath, Arya began to laugh too. Soon the pair could scarcely stop the giggles that were escaping them, undoubtedly helped by sweet wine and the night’s chill.

They must have sat under that tree for nigh on two hours when the sun began to peak above the horizon, and they decided they must start to return to their respective chambers.

Gendry gave Arya a boost up the wall even though she protested loudly at needing his help, but he only stood there with his hands clasped and an expectant expression. Stubborn man. It had absolutely nothing to do with the way her skirts flowed as she climbed above him. Nothing at all.

When they reached the other side of the wall, Arya once again offered her hand to the prince. At his confused glance she explained.

“There’s no one in this castle that I can trust apart from my father and my sister, and no one at all that’s any fun. Plus, I’m almost as much as an outcast as you are, being a wild northerner. Friends?”

Gendry beamed and clutched her forearm in a grip that was much more similar to an oath.

“Friends.”


	4. Chapter 4

 

The next morning was the official start of his new life. Now, rather than be shut away in his rooms for secrecy’s sake, Gendry had barely any time to even think, let alone spend a minute for himself. The tutors never let up, as he was expected to read and write proficiently, to recognize each noble house and their words, and most importantly, how to act with courtesy and diplomacy. This was a lesson he doubted most nobles had actually attended.

But still, he attended each lesson with serious determination. This was more than anyone expected of him before, and he was not going to prove them right.

The other events on his schedule were taken up by sword lessons, riding lessons, and shadowing the Hand to learn more about the Small Council meetings, and general Westerosi politics. This was a mixed bag in Gendry’s opinion. The physical activities he excelled in, but the politics was damn near boring him to death. Why can’t there ever be an easy solution? And when a solution does arise no one can agree because it could offend Lord whatever.

Ugh.

In fact, Gendry may be in denial of the fact he was in over his head here, but he was too stubborn to not at least try.

In all this time, any free moments he had was stolen by one particular northern girl. She would arrive in the sparring yard and drag him away bodily so that they could go on “adventures” around the castle since they still didn’t agree on who knew it better (it was definitely Arya.) Each time, every man in the yard would laugh and jeer at the huge Bull being pulled around by a girl half his size, telling him he was whipped already, though they were sure to never say it loud enough for Arya to hear.  Any rumours of a relationship were crushed through, and very vehemently. They were simply friends.

Not that any one believed them, other than themselves.

These escapes were often met with a sharp look from the Hand, but all he could do was shrug and smile fondly at the familiar sight of Arya bossing about men much bigger than her. At least he could be sure that Gendry wouldn’t be offended.  Even Sansa looked relived, she no longer had to be the one to entertain Arya to stop her from doing something stupid, that was the Prince’s responsibility now.

This was one occasion where Arya had shown up to the yard in breeches, her long hair in a single plait down her back, and her sword at her side. It was the day before the Crown Prince’s tourney and all the men in King’s Landing were spending many hours with a sword in hand, scouring the yard to just a taste of the styles and skills they were going to encounter.

“Please don’t tell me you want to spar, because your lord father would have my head,” Gendry shook his head as she neared.

She made a noncommittal noise that could pass as a verbal shrug.

“Maester Kell has fallen ill and your lessons are all cancelled for the day.” The sly smile on her face made him wonder if she was the cause of this man’s illness but she continued before the thought could be developed further.

“You’re going to give me a tour of King’s Landing.” Gendry was ecstatic for a second and then remembered who he was dealing with.

“What! Did your father agree to that?” 

Arya made another pitched noise and turned her eyes to the ground. His eyebrows raised in a challenged and she gave in with her explanation.

“Okay fine! No, he doesn’t, and he won’t if we leave quickly!” With that, she turned on her heel and began to stalk towards the gate. Gendry hesitated for a second and saw over his shoulder all of the men in the yard snickering at the interaction. He groaned internally as the volume of laughter increased as he chased after Arya, like a child. But he knew, that if he didn’t go with her, she’d just go off by herself which was much, much worse.

“Arya, King’s Landing is dangerous, especially for a highborn lady like yourself,”

“I have Needle! And I have you, that’d be enough to deter anyone,”

“Gee thanks,”

They had just approached entrance to the lower levels of the castle, and Gendry turned to walk the path up to his rooms, but a little hand caught his arm.

“C’mon Gendry! I’m so bored being here! I just want to explore a little bit,”

Gendry stared down at her, straight into her steely eyes. She was pulling a face like a small child, to try and gain his sympathy no doubt. It was working. Something about her eyes just made him want to agree to everything she said, and if she knew that, she was going to be a living nightmare. The eye contact was drawn out, and he saw the stubborn lines at the bridge of her nose emerge, and he knew he had lost. It’s not like he minded a day out of the castle, he just wished it wouldn’t cost him Lord Stark’s respect.

“Okay fine,” Gendry sighed.  “But if we get caught, you’re going to owe me.”

“What d’you want?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll find some way to embarrass you I’m sure.”

Arya smiled and skipped off ahead of him, in the direction of the secret tunnel they had found 3 days previously. She didn’t look back to see if he was following, somehow, she just knew he would.

On the way out of the castle, they discussed court politics. Strange as this would seem for these two, it was actually pretty common place. Arya, who had to spend most of her time among the ladies of the court would pick up the gossip even without trying, and Gendry happened to be at the centre of most of the discussions these days, and he needed to know exactly what all those ladies were thinking.

 As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he knew he did have to marry soon, just for political stability, and none of the women would be upfront with their real identities to the prince, so he had Arya spy for him. His own little bird.

“Okay, what about Lady Tyrell?” Gendry asked as he kicked a lose stone along the sewer floor.

“Margaery is, well, nice.” Gendry shot her an unimpressed look. “She is! She’s refined, and kind, and very, very ambitious.” Arya’s head shot down to follow the bounces of the pebble. “She’s very beautiful,” came out in hardly a whisper.

“Yeah, but the prettier the snake, the worse it’s venom,” Gendry snorted. Tyrell was very beautiful, and she was ambitious and that was a dangerous combination for a Queen. It was the same combination found in the late Queen Cersei.

Arya shrugged. “Sansa was talking about you today. She’s beautiful, and she’d never hurt anyone.”

“I don’t want to marry your sister, Arya.”

“Why not?”

“I already told you, now shut up and walk. We’re never going to get back in time if you don’t walk faster.”

They made it out of the sewers and into the lower regions of the town, which somehow smelt even worse. The houses were all stone and crammed together in every which way, some even on top of one another, with alleys crawling around corners and up hills. Everything was the same colour apart from the vibrant red rooves and the people themselves. Colours were everywhere among the smallfolk, from the hair of a passing Tyroshi, skin colours, clothes and even a range of very colourful languages. She had heard that King’s Landing was a large port, but she had never expected to see so many Essosi people in the capital. It was wonderful, busy in a way that Wintertown would never be but strangely Arya did not find it constricting.

Further into the town, over the stench of shit, she could smell bread, and flowery perfume, and the sea.  The noise level was almost overwhelming after the restrictive politeness of the Keep, and shouts were drawing her attention from every angle, for jewellery, for food, for a cool drink. Words washed over hear in an unending tide, snippets of conversations from passing gossips. She could drown in it. It was the perfect place to get lost.

That is almost exactly what they did.

Gendry had taken her hand, so as not to lose her small self in the perpetual crowd and lead her in every direction they could think of.

No one yet knew their faces and they blended in so effortlessly that both the Prince and the Lady found themselves immersed in many casual conversations with merchants and fishermen and the like.

While King’s Landing was a new adventure for Arya, Gendry was simply enjoying the look of surprise on her face, and his relative freedom. This was who he was, not some highborn. _But she’s a highborn,_ his mind whispered, _and she fits in here perfectly_. That was true enough, Arya had spent most of her time, japing rudely with some jolly drunks they had found on the corner of a tavern. Apparently, they were also northern, and all northerners were happiest to see each other than any stupid southerner, by the way the conversation was going. Gendry tried not to feel offended.

His day had almost been perfect, wandering the streets with his best friend. They had no constraints of Septas or Maesters or courtesy. They were just Gendry and Arya, out on the town.

Speaking of best friends, Gendry had one more stop to make before sundown.

“C’mon you,” this was his turn to drag her bodily, his long fingers wrapped easily around her wrist.

She hastily shouted some goodbyes to her new friends, as he stomped down the narrow paths. He noticed, unsettled, that less people sent them weird glances when _he_ was the one to dragging _her_. Disgusting.

They trudged down steep steps, round winding corners, and holding hands, almost on top of each other to avoid running into any one else in the never-ending traffic. At one point, Gendry had to twirl out of the way of a cart, and almost pirouetted straight onto Arya, spinning her round too since he did not let go of her, and knocking over 3 people and a stray cat behind them in the process. Up above, an old lady shook her head and laughed at their antics from her window.  Once dusted off, they gave into laughs themselves, the look of panic on Gendry’s face had been a spectacle in itself.

Eventually, he let up on the speed and let go of her hand to spread his arms open wide in front of a non-descript inn. The sign above was wonky and faded, and the door hung on only one hinge, but it managed to look comfortable rather than dilapidated. Though the smell of stew and hops and Gendry’s contented smile added to the cosiness of the building. The Old Crow Inn, serving King’s Landing since 208 AC.

At Gendry’s none too subtle push, Arya gently pried open the heavy oak door. Inside was warm, with hops hanging from the wooden beams in the ceiling, and despite the candles at the tables deformed over hours of use, it was dark. The floors were sticky with decades of spilt drinks and the patrons were all somehow already deep into their cups. The atmosphere was light and a man at the bar was crooning a song of love and summer. Following a step behind her, Gendry entered, and set the door back into its hinges.

“Gendry!” came a yell from the bar that startled Arya. A short, fat boy ran out from the kitchen towards her companion and wrapped him up in a hug.

“Hot Pie!” Gendry returned. _Hot Pie?_ Arya mouthed in disbelief.

Gendry rolled his eyes and drew back. The other patrons of the bar came up and greeted Gendry in much the same way. Once the fussing became too much for him, Gendry shoved them all away and gestured at Arya.

“This is my friend, Ar- Arry.” Arya caught on quickly, they did not know of his new parentage. Got it.

“Arry, these are my friends; Hot Pie, Tom, Anguy, Lem, and Lommy.” They all nodded when their name was mentione, Anguy tipping his cap to her. “Hot Pie and Lommy work here, and the other’s visit from the Riverlands for the best damn stew this side of the Fork.”

Gendry neglected to mention that they were the infamous Brotherhood, as he wasn’t sure how the highborn would react. Once upon a time, a whole life time ago, he had considered joining the Brotherhood, but he just couldn’t get on board with the scamming and looting. Stupid strong moral compass. Then again, if he had joined, he would have left for the Riverlands and never have met his father, or the Starks.

“My mother’s from the Riverlands! I’ve only been once or twice myself.”

“How’d you know our Gendry, then?” Lem asked, strocking his beard with a gleam interest and slight protectiveness.

“Oh. Um, he was giving me a tour of King’s Landing. I’m visiting with my family.” Arya stammered, trying not to give herself away. His friends seemed nice though, she didn’t know why he hasn’t told them. They were nicer to him than any of her “friends” in Winterfell. Most people just tolerated her running around, invading their space as classic “Arya Underfoot.”

“You here this Tom? Gendry’s been ditching us to give private tours to pretty girls now,” exclaimed Anguy, with a tilt to his eyebrows. Both Gendry and Arya blushed at the insinuation but were too late to defend themselves.

“We’ve taught him well, he knows his priorities,” laughed Tom.

The others all joined in with the good-natured ribbing, which felt so familiar to the knights this morning, only the warmth it created was deeper in his chest.

“Where have you been though, boy? We’ve been here for near a sennight and not heard head nor tail of you,”

“Well, I’ve been very busy. You know, with an actual job.”

His tone was sharp and fond and left rounds of laughter in it’s wake. Someone clapped him on the shoulder and jeered at Tom for his invasiveness. Tales were told of what they had all been busy getting up to since they had last seen him, watered down for Arya’s sake though more than a few embarrassing stories were drudged up from the past, specifically to embarrass him, like when he almost killed himself when Anguy taught him to use a bow, such a useless shot he is.

“Can we stop with an interrogation and just sit down please? Someone’s been dragging me around the whole bloody city all day.”

Suddenly Arya was pulled back into the conversation, she had been too busy admiring the sense of camaraderie she missed since she had left her siblings.

“You wanted to come with me,” she said.

“Excuse me, but I remember someone threatening and begging me to accompany her,” Gendry teased.

“Shut up stupid, you wouldn’t come if you didn’t want to,” her arms crossed, and she stepped closer to the tall boy to get in his face.

“I’m here because your father would skin me alive if I let you go off by yourself,” he laughed down at her.

“Well if you didn’t want to be around me maybe I should just go back then.” She half shouted. Suddenly, as if possessed, her shoulders straightened, and her head tilted down submissively to the floor. “I’m sorry for bothering you so much, your grace. I’ll take my leave, if I am permitted.”

Her voice was honeyed and polite and nothing like he knew Arya could be, and it horrified him.

She curtsied clumsily, wobbling as she bent down low to the ground, and ran from the room. Stupid prince and his stupid friends. He could stay with them, for all she cared, laughing and japing with each other and their dumb shared stories. He wasn’t Jon and she shouldn’t have forgotten that. No one other than Jon had ever wanted her around, had never found her presence irritating.

Arya found herself missing her brother so fiercely that she was forced to battle the tears coming to her eyes as she sprinted back towards the keep. It was hard to not to find the looming castle as it jutted out of the landscape from every turn. Running so fast, she didn’t even have time to run into any danger. What was more difficult was convincing the guards at the gate that this girl covered in tears and red faced from running would be a Lady, as ugly and unrefined as she must look. They would have let Sansa in, but Arya was nothing like her sister, and she was well aware of this.

Her crying was finally ceasing as she gave into her anger and began to yell at the poor guard at the top of her lungs, demanding entrance, she was a Stark, godsdamnhim. Luckily, her shouting had gathered the attention of her sister, who recognized the biting tone, and managed to get her past the gate.

Sansa was worried, but thank the Gods, she didn’t ask where Arya had been or why she was so upset. She pulled Arya along behind her to their chambers, her long pale arm wrapped around her little sisters shoulders to guide her. Once they reached the rooms, Sansa brushed her hair gently like mother used to, wiped her face, and helped her to bed.  They laid together like young children they used to be and drifted off into sleep. The next morning would bring conversation, Sansa wasn’t kind enough to let it go forever.

Maybe it wasn’t just Jon, was Arya’s last thought for the day.

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry for not updating for 3 months, but I do plan to continue this story, I have 12 more chapters planned in detail and the rest sketched out! Thank you everyone for the wonderful comments and Kudos and keep 'em coming xx
> 
> (BTW updates will probably be slow during exam season)

 

 

As soon as the oak door slammed shut Gendry’s brain had officially given up. He was staring at the panels of wood completely mindlessly, looking like a puppet whose strings had just been cut. His mouth was so widely opened that if someone had punched him in that moment, Gendry would have swallowed the entire offending arm and not even notice.

In the names of all the Gods that can be prayed to, what the fuck was that?

“Your grace?” called from somewhere behind him.

Now thoroughly well trained and desensitized to the title, Gendry responded on instinct, politely, before he realised who he was talking to and span around to the faces of his old friends.

“I’d heard that there was a new prince, a strong bloke, but I never thought I’d see the day where our little Gendry Waters was polite.” They were all standing around the table, drinks deserted, all with varying looks of shock playing on their features.

When Gendry didn’t find an answer in time, Lem continued, “Or do we have to call you your grace to get a response now too?”

Gendry was just about to begin to tell them all that he hasn’t really changed, that him being a Lord, a Prince hasn’t turned him into one of the pricks they used to get drunk and moan about almost every day. He wasn’t like them. But then, wasn’t he? He lived up in the castle and ate and drank and his biggest worry was how he’d fare in his own tournament, while he’d not even thought to visit his friends any sooner, tried to help them with his newfound wealth and power. Maybe he was just truly the same as the Lords the Brotherhood stole from.

No – he’d never be that bad.

Neither were Arya and Lord Stark and Uncle Renly.

But before he could explain that all, Anguy picked up the questioning, the others joining in in quick succession. They all began to crown around him, badgering him with question after question and not holding back their anger in the slightest at having been left out of the loop.

“You live in the Keep?”

“Why didn’t you tell us? You lordling too good for us now?”

“Who was that girl, then? She didn’t look much like the usual sewer rat. Was she your new little lady wife?”

Once again, Gendry opened his mouth to respond but was shut down by a finger pointed at his face.

“You pissed her off now then? I wonder if she’ll put out for you now, you know how prude and proper those ladies are. Or maybe she gets off on her dirty common fuck – “

Gendry was fully cognizant now and he definitely noticed the sting in his knuckles when he sent Lommy to the floor. That shut all his friends up very quickly. All except for Tom, who hadn’t yet said a word apart from a muttered “Ours is the fury,” while staring down and Lommy’s bleeding nose.

And in that moment, standing over Lommy’s body sprawled out on the floor, Gendry had never connected so much to his family’s words. How dare he speak like that about Arya? Arya, who was so quick and kind and took it upon herself to become his best friend in such a short time. Who never once pitied him, but who hated him right now for a reason that he would definitely find out later. At this moment he was too busy seething.

“Don’t you say another word about her. Her name is Arya Stark of Winterfell and if she hears you saying that, she won’t need me to defend her, she’d fight you herself,” he spat, leaning down. His movement was quickly restricted by a fair few pairs of arms.

Lommy accepted a hand up, wiped his nose and retorted, “Just because you’re in love with some lady now doesn’t mean you abandon the people that’ve supported you for years.”

“I didn’t abandon anyone!” Gendry near roared. “And even if I had, it wouldn’t have been Arya’s fault anyway. I’ve been busy, trying to learn how to rule the whole bloody kingdom, which I didn’t ask for in the first place. Plus, this is the first time since my Father found me that I’ve been able to leave the Keep so I could hardly have told you all sooner. You would have known this if you let me speak for two seconds rather than just accuse me of being some highborn dick and insult my best friend.”

At that, the group’s expressions almost simultaneously softened from betrayal to annoyance and they fell heavily back into their seats, Gendry being the last, tentatively perched on the end of the bench.

The silence drifted for a while they all attempted to process the last few minutes.

“So, you’re not fucking her?” Hot Pie finally broke. They all cracked a tired grin as Gendry reaffirmed for the nth time that week that no, he and Arya were just good friends, solely platonic. He then informed Hot Pie, succinctly, that if tried anything with Arya that he’d be hanging from his balls from the ceiling, which brokered another round of hesitant laughter.

“Guys… I am sorry that I didn’t tell you lot sooner. I wish that I could see you more often. I miss you bunch of sour prats.”

“What are so busy with at your castle?”

“Well, mostly Lord lessons, training, sometimes I go hunting with Father, Uncle Renly or Lord Stark. Arya comes if she doesn’t have any engagements of her own and her Lord father, the Hand, is feeling indulgent. Right now, mostly training, as we’ve got a tourney in my honour tomorrow.” Following that, there was stunned silence.

“You realise what you sound like don’t you?”

Gendry groaned, dropping his head onto the table with a loud “thunk”, making all the goblets wobble precariously. Anguy and Tom ribbed him good-naturedly. “I can’t believe that’s my life!”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us!”

“I thought we got past this! What do you need for me to forgive you?”

Tom stroked his beard, mock thoughtfully. “You could lower the taxes.”

 

The conversation that followed lasted near 2 hours, going through a thorough explanation of what’s happened and how they can all move forwards now. Towards the end, when the drinks were emptying and more patrons were filling into the tavern as black spilt across the sky, Gendry decided to make his way back to the Keep. Well-wishes and mocking “Your grace!”’s followed him out of the door and onto the streets of King’s Landing.

The difference between night and day on these streets had never seemed more dangerous to Gendry. Where before, in the scorching sun, with Arya’s hand in his, the city was bustling with colour and vitality leaking from every corner. Right now, after dusk, the streets were empty from all life other than stray dogs, beggars and shadows lurking in the alleys. Even the washing lines above his head twisted into hanging ropes, with cloth corpses. The moon seemed far away, tucking herself underneath the cover of the clouds as if saying you’re on your own here.

Still, with nerves of fraying steel, he head on through the endless twists and turns along the grey stoned paths, cursing himself for not bringing anything other than the small dagger he had been practicing with earlier in the day. Every one of his footsteps seemed to echo in the stretched silence, until an answering echo came from around the corner he was just turning.

Before he could properly register the attack, a knife came down on his arm, ripping his tunic and skin. His body curled around the injured limb and the attacker took a step away. He was a young, thin and underfed boy, obviously now turned thief. He was light on his feet, gangly, with a mop of matted hair and scarred hands.

“Give me your coins.”

Gendry was about to retort that he didn’t have any, but then realised what he looked like. His hair was cleaned this morning, his knife was castle forged steel. And though he wasn’t exactly wearing finery, his clothes were much more well kept than the typical citizen. His frozen form angered the kid.

“Give me your coins,” he pressed in closer and pulled the knife up to Gendry’s throat.

“Sure,” Gendry answered, reaching into his pocket. “What do you need them for?”

“Why do you care?”

“I grew up here, I know you don’t just steal for fun,” he pressed a few silver coins into the grubby hand that wasn’t threatening his life. “You need them more than I do, I’d wager.” The boy looked dumbfounded, expecting there to be much more resistance from what looked like a Knight. His hands closed around the money and he quickly retreated to further down the small alley.

“My… my mother’s sick. We don’t have enough money to keep her fed anymore.”

Just as the thief was retreating, Gendry called out: “There’s a doctor on the other side of the city, near the Old Gate. His name’s something like Krin, he doesn’t charge much,” and continued his way back to the Keep.

 

Now that the danger and overwhelming pity were out of his system, his arm began to complain noisily. It throbbed and stang and generally was making a nuisance of itself, making Gendry quicken his pace significantly, the entire journey blurring and his vision fading just as he got to the castle gates. He made out shouts of alarm from the guards, then from servants and finally his father himself showing up at some point, shouting his anger at a volume that surpassed bloody dragons.

The night was a blur of nurses and dreams and insisting that he’s well enough to fight on the morrow. One thing that could not leave his mind though, not even in dreams, was why Arya had been so angry at him. Surely, she must have known that he was joking with her. That of course he wanted to spend time with her, she was his best friend! He sighed internally, knowing of course what the true reason was.

She was persistent in believing she was alone. That is was Arya versus the world, when she had her father, had Sansa and himself behind her. That from the stories that Lord Stark had told him, her other siblings and mother loved her just as much. Arya had a family, and she just could not see that while she was in King’s Landing apparently. Gendry acting as if he was irritated by her only furthered her self-isolation from him now too. In the morning, he was going to make it clear to her that he wasn’t going to be chased away. Plus, he had a favour to make use of.

 

 

 

 


End file.
